Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The human voice is the organ of the soul.

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Each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it close.

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The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveler to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

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Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

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Think not because no man sees, such things will remain unseen.

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Let us be merciful as well as just.

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Trust no future, however pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act -- act in the living Present! Heart within and God overhead.

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A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.

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Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.

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Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares!

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The poor too often turn away unheard, From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven.

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White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.

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Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

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Whatever poet, orator, or sage may say of it, old age is still old age.

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Softly the evening came /with the sunset/.

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No one is so accursed by fate, no one so utterly desolate, but some heart though unknown responds unto his own.

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So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.

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Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

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To be left alone, and face to face with my own crime, had been just retribution.

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Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

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